


Spiritus Vitae

by OrchidScript



Series: Ars Morte [2]
Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Antari are wildly powerful mediums, Antari mediums, M/M, Spirit Mediums, Spiritualism, The Sanctuary functions as their safe-haven, very much akin to the SAGB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: As soon as his eyes open, Kell is launching out of his chair, landing with a bang on the floor. Holland lay crumpled on the rug, head narrowly avoided smacking the coffee table, odd strangled gurgling noises burbling in his throat. He didn’t look like he was breathing, but his limbs spasmed and eyelids twitched. Kell himself was gasping for air, dizzy and disoriented from the quick exit out of his trance, but he was determined to help.He had been so close. He had done it, but something was wrong.A continuation of the Victorian Spiritualism AU -- Holland's Vosijk's near-fatal accident and the lengths it took to revive him.
Relationships: Kell Maresh/Holland Vosijk, Talya/Holland Vosijk, and a dash of - Relationship
Series: Ars Morte [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697851
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	1. Momento Mori

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I'm back with another installment of the Victorian AU -- which has now become a series along with Arcana Mortis, apparently. As soon as I published the first one, I knew I was not nearly done with this version of the world. I also knew I would need to elaborate, in part, on Holland's accident and how he came to be in Ned Tuttle's drawing room in the first place. This section will only have three parts and will feature more characters, including my first-ever attempt at Delilah Bard. Very exciting stuff :)
> 
> Anyway, thank you and enjoy!
> 
> Orchid

_ London, 1883 _

As soon as his eyes open, Kell is launching out of his chair, landing with a bang on the floor. Holland lay crumpled on the rug, head narrowly avoided smacking the coffee table, odd strangled gurgling noises burbling in his throat. He didn’t look like he was breathing, but his limbs spasmed and eyelids twitched. Kell himself was gasping for air, dizzy and disoriented from the quick exit out of his trance, but he was determined to help.

He had been so close. He had done it, but something was wrong.

“No no no no no no,” Kell murmured, panic rising in his chest. “No no no, come back. Come back, Holland. I know you’re in there, I put you back in there. Please, Holland, please can you hear me?”

The older man’s skin was turning cold and pale, greyish and sickly. Kell reached for his mouth, pushing his fingers between lips and teeth to wrench Holland’s jaw open. He moves to sit over the man, feeling for a pulse and finding one too frail to continue. He squares his hands over the man’s chest, pushing down slowly, listening to the air wheeze out. He smiles, nervously but relieved, as he hears air being sucked back inside.

“There we go, okay, alright. That, that’s better.” Kell repeats the movement with the same result. Again and again, he forces air in and out of Holland’s lungs until the man coughs. “Oh come on, Holland. Come one, breathe for me. Breathe for me, please.”

The coughing fades into sputters. Kell’s heart lurches and he starts the compressions again. He realizes with a start that Holland’s hair has turned bright, snowy white. All the color was leaching out of him, or so it appeared, and Kell prayed that didn’t mean his life was leaking out too. Kell paused long enough to quickly find a pulse again then returned to compressions, frantically trying to get his friend, his mentor, his confidant to just  _ breathe _ .

It had been an accident.

A mistake.

A trap both of them had walked into, but Holland suffered alone for. He and Holland had been tasked to create a joint act, of sorts. Something novel and unique the Sanctuary could use to pull new enthusiasts and collectors in. The Sanctuary had started contracting the two of them out while Kell was still learning, so the younger man could watch proper staging and progression, how to address a crowd politely and make sure the directions given were followed. It was a working relationship that continued well after Kell had come into his own power, but they had always performed separately. One after the other, one trance then the next, never in tandem. Very few mediums performed in tandem, let alone together -- only the Eddy brothers and the legendary sisters Fox had managed it successfully, with many a question as to why -- claiming it would confuse the spirits.

Holland had been apprehensive when Tieran approached them with the idea. He was unsure as to how different the stunt would be when two  _ antari _ were conducting it. Tieran seemed to believe it would give them more control over potential mishaps, that their natural gifts would force the path smooth where lesser practitioners experienced bumps. Kell had agreed immediately, eager to try someone that would push the limits of his skills, his knowledge, his power. Holland had not been so easily convinced.

In hindsight, Kell knew it was his selfishness, his unfairly pushing Holland into the task that had ended them here.

Holland had eventually agreed. Reluctantly, with limits and boundaries, the two men started experimenting. Joint channeling, joint trancing was far more difficult than Kell had expected it to be. Their energy, their magic, had to be in total synchronization or they would lose touch with one another. If they lost touch, then the result was ruined -- they were simply two  _ antari _ mediums trancing in adjacent chairs.

They had started by facing one another, hands gripped to forearms, knees touching, and foreheads bent close together. The first few times, they had figured they should match as much as they possibly could -- each breath, heartbeat, and blink. 

They had still failed spectacularly. 

Nothing, not even the faint glimmer of the veil, could be felt.

Eventually, they managed a few moments under the surface before Kell felt himself yanked back out. It was frustrating, irritating. How could so much be at his fingertips, ready and waiting to be manipulated, but not this? This one thing? He had ranted at Holland over dinner, during their breaks between practice. They were the sole proven  _ antari _ , the strongest and most well-versed mediums currently working. If two hacks like the Eddy brothers from the backwaters of America could figure it out, Holland and Kell should have had it mastered in under a day.

It took them six months.

Holland reasoned his mastery of astral projection could be to their benefit. Kell would go into his own trance first, quietly pushing the usual tendrils out into open space. Holland would follow him, falling into his own trance and allowing his soul to leave his body in search of those same bright tendrils. He would find them and use them to pull Kell through to the other side. They had to be careful not to stray from one another. Kell needed Holland to stay on that side of the veil and Holland needed Kell to find his way back out.

Sixteen times since they had done it. 

Sixteen times, the two of them had walked unheeded through the world of the dead and returned unscathed.

Sixteen times it had gone right.

Only once had it gone wrong. And now Holland lay on the carpet in Kell’s bedroom, his soul held down and shattering apart. Kell worked but he feared there was nothing he could do, nothing that would fix this, nothing that could bring Holland back. He had screamed for help, but only now heard footsteps thundering up the stairs and along the hallway towards him. When his bedroom door flew open revealing Hastra and Tieran, Kell was already holding his little silver knife and flicking the blade open.

“Something’s gone wrong,” Kell said quickly, pressing the blade into an uncut part of his palm. “A spirit grabbed him, pulled him deeper. I thought I had pulled him back, but I need to fix it. I need to see--.”

“Do it.” Hastra had moved lightning quick, crossing the room and lowering himself to the floor next to Kell without further question. “Do it, go under. I’ll pull you back.”

Kell managed a gratified smile as blood welled up on his skin, then settled down on the carpet next to Holland. He laced the fingers of his bloody hand in one of Holland’s and curled his body close, a macabre imitation of their bed every morning. He empties his lungs and closes his eyes.

“Pray this works,” he whispers to no one in particular. “ _ As travars _ .”

Kell lets the blackness swallow him, overwhelm him immediately. There were two ways to descend -- slow and measured or quick and violent. Kell preferred the former, but now found himself buckling under the latter. His body turned immediately cold, his stomach churning with something like seasickness, the rest of him overcome with the sensation of drowning. As if someone had grasped him hard at the shoulders then shoved him underwater, filling his nose and mouth, nearly shocking him out of his trance. He hated it, hated it whole-heartedly. But he would do absolutely anything for Holland.

_ As enose _ … _ As enose Holland…  _

_ Find me, Holland. Please find me, hear me… where are you, love? _

Ghostly fabric tore past his face. Phantom fingers wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, his shirt collar. They yank him through, tugging him one by one, hand over hand deeper and deeper down into the void, the inky blackness of the great beyond.

_ Holland Vosijk _ , Kell pleads to them.  _ Can you help me find Holland Vosijk _ ?

Mumbling voices answer, none of them clear, but Kell keeps moving. Falling, really. He lets himself drop weightlessly, a pebble falling freely down a mine shaft. Worry smacks him hard across the face, that he was diving too deeply and would never be able to come back out. That this was a fool’s errand, a death wish, and the perfect example of his rash mind, his impulsiveness. 

The only two  _ antari _ in existence.

Gone in a blink, one after the other.

Kell’s loyalty, unfortunately, was louder than his fear. It had been since he was a child, the product of being abandoned and adopted, charged with the very important task of caring for his younger brother. Kell knew his love had to be earned, but once it had been he would risk body and soul for the recipient. He had done over and over for Rhy. He would do it for Holland now, would do it again if he could save him.

_ And if you can’t? What then, little medium? _

Kell didn’t know. He did not want to think on the inevitability of a life lived without Holland in it. The veil did not allow for his thoughts to wander. Seconds after, a scream tore through the blackness. Loud, ripping, painful, very nearby and searing through his senses. He feels a palm press flat to his back and shove him tumbling forward. He catches himself just before he collides with a black mass, swirling and constricting around Holland’s pale flickering form.

The spirit had reached out to them. It had called itself Osaron, appearing before Holland in the guise of an ancient king. Holland had been intrigued, then entranced. When he had realized the attachment forming and tried to warn Kell, Osaron had exploded into black smoke, enveloping Holland completely. Kell had managed to tangle his fingers in the cuff of Holland’s shirt after long minutes of fighting, had thought he had gotten Holland safely back into his body. 

Not so, it would seem. 

It hadn’t stuck, hadn’t worked. Osaron had managed to creep back up and drag Holland’s soul back down.

_ He’s mine, little antari. Go back to the living. I won’t be letting him go. _ Osaron’s voice lilted through the void, dully echoing off itself. A coil of the  _ oshoc _ ’s snake-like form runs up Holland’s chest, over the rise of his shoulders, tightening over his neck. Another one shoots out and constricts around Kell’s.

Kell shakes and struggles, hands finding no purchase on the smoke. Clever spirit, evil spirit, a long-lost kind of demon made of nothing but pure magic and sentience.  _ Oshoc _ were rumored about, never encountered. Kell had studied them in theory, but there was no person living who had ever spoken with, let alone challenged one.

_ What do you want with him? _ Kell chokes.

_ I need a body, little antari, and his soul was getting in the way…  _ the  _ oshoc _ has no face but Kell swears it grins at him, leers at him. Wicked and taunting.  _ Would you rather it be you, flower boy? _

_ N-No, let him go. _

_ I don’t think so. But I’ll let you watch as I kill him. _

Osaron evaporates from around his neck and concentrates around Holland’s crumpled form, hardening around his neck and arms. It holds the man in place, tugs his head backwards, and leers at Kell one more time before flooding Holland’s nose and mouth.

_ No! _ Kell lunges forward and finds himself frozen in space. The  _ oshoc _ ’s insidious laughter shakes the very fabric of the veil around them as he invades Holland’s body. The shaky pale vision starts shattering at its core, shaking and flaking off. What does have the decency to remain attached turns the same vicious, angry black of Osaron’s smoke. Kell watches, feeling helplessly stuck.

_ The blood… your blood… don’t you hear me, son? You’re dripping power… _

Kell glances down at his hand. Even though the descent, his hand was still bleeding. Still dripping, pooling, coating his palm and fingers, collecting at his wrist and under his nails.

_ Oh… _

Kell stares at his open hand and concentrates, tries to pull his power down this far with him. Tries to force the iridescent ribbons into existence. A wisp of clean silver fog appears, then vanishes. Channeling alone wouldn’t work. He would have to put his energy into something tangible, or something he could pretend was tangible. Kell huffs and focuses on the invisible will holding him in place.

_ As anasae _ .

He drops, life coming back into his limbs in a prickling rush. He rolls up onto his knees and presses both palms together, focusing on the undulating black mass invading his friend. Focuses wholly on the  _ oshoc _ , feeling his blood and bones rise to meet it.

_ As tosal. _

_ To confine, to trap a soul in it’s skin _ .

It was a dangerous play. He risked confining Holland’s soul, risked the command’s irreversibility rendered on the wrong being. But it was his only change. There was no blood command he knew for extracting. No  _ antari _ had thought of that.

Kell watched as Osaron’s form halted, stuck in place, frozen in time while Holland still seemed to breathe and change. He takes another breath, already feeling drained and cold. Too much time under could sap the energy from a medium; too much force and power expelled at once could do the same. Kell could only imagine what an output of this magnitude within the veil was doing to his reserves. He shouldn’t, but he had to. He would do anything for Holland.

_ And now, for my next trick… _ Kell inhales, conjuring the command as he exhales.  _ As steno. _

_ To break, to shatter. Thin ice on a winter pond, a champagne flute cracking against a soprano’s voice. _

Osaron’s form does the same, crumbling like bricks from a demolished home. The veil shakes with the force of what he’s done, of what he’s accomplished. But all too quickly, Kell sees Holland start to tear, fragmenting along with the pieces of the  _ oshoc _ inside him. 

_ As anasae _ , He shouts above the clamor of the spirits, the terrifying din of the veil twisting around him.  _ As anasae, please! Help! _

White fog explodes around him. Kell doesn’t know where, but it rushes up over his face and hair, filling his nose and eyes. It nearly knocks him backwards, like ocean waves when he was young, but it holds him upright. Holds his palms together, tilts his head up, presses up against his shoulders as sensation and light overwhelm him. 

When it evaporates, Holland’s soul is whole, laying collapse on his side like his body back on Kell’s bedroom floor. Pieces of him are slashed, the edges of his form fraying and shredded, but he’s whole. And Kell can heal him. He slides over to Holland’s side, running a bloody hand over his face, then pushing the man onto his back. Chest rising and falling, eyes moving behind closed lids -- alive, but barely.

_ Thank you, _ Kell breathes to the veil.  _ Thank you, thank you…  _ He leans down and presses a kiss to Holland’s forehead.  _ Your turn now, love. Your turn. Hold onto me, I’ll fix this… As hasari… _

The command is always a shock to the body, for both involved. The practitioner and the ill or injured person. Tieran had said it was a splitting of vital energy, a way for the  _ antari _ to divide a portion of their power and force it upon another. Only to be used in dire circumstances and useless on one’s own self. As Kell speaks the command, he feels a fist connect with his stomach. He keeps his hands on Holland’s face, somehow, as he hunches over, eyes watering and sour bile hitting the back on his throat. But the edges knit themselves together, reconnecting into something close to a solid edge.

_ That’s enough, son. You’re hitting your limit. Stop this foolishness-- _

_ Kell? Can you hear me? I’m pulling you back out… It’s been too long, Tieran says… _ The rest of Hastra’s voice is lost in the low, chilling wind that swirls around him. Kell collapses forward, latching on to Holland as he feels the veil forcing him back up and out.

Kell coughs and gags as he resurfaces, still on the carpet right next to Holland, who sounds like he’s choking. He feels hands on them, but pushes them away as he feels his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He manages to roll up onto his knees before giving into the sickness, vomiting watery yellow onto the rug. His tongue burns, each breath carrying some of the awful bile with it. 

But Holland is coughing, spitting sounds between hacks. 

Kell wipes his mouth on his sleeve and turns back to the older man. His hair is still white, his skin still deathly grey, but his eyes are open and he’s breathing. He’s finally breathing. Kell smiles, his own breath coming in pants, and reaches for one of Holland’s hands.

“Easy now, even breaths.” His voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper, but Holland hears him. His eyes, the green faded and uncertain, settle on Kell’s face. His hand squeezes Kell’s fingers. “Good, deep even breaths… There you go. You’re fine, I’ve got you. I promise, I’ve got you.”

“K-Kell?” Holland croaks.

“It’s me, it’s me. I promise. No talking, just focus on breathing.” Kell answers, rubbing a thumb over the man’s knuckles. “I’m sorry, I pushed and didn’t listen. You were right, this is too dangerous, and, and… C-Can you ever forgive me?”

Holland takes in shuddering breaths, but it’s only then that Kell realizes how slow the man’s blinks are. How unfocused he’s starting to seem again.

“No, no no no, Holland. Stay here, stay with me! Don’t go under again, don’t let it--!”

“T-Tired,” Holland manages, eyes sliding shut. “S-So, tired… Need to, need to heal, Kell. Need to r-rest, for a while... “

“You can, I promise you can, you just have to stay awake for a little while longer.” Kell is frantic, grabbing and shaking the man. “Stay awake, stay awake, please!”

Holland shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Want to… need to, to sleep… N’going anywhere, darling…”

And, with that, Holland’s eyes close. His breathing calms to even inhales and exhales. His grip loosens on Kell’s hand. He looks at peace and so very near death all at the same time.

And all Kell can do is stare as hot tears prickle the corners of his eyes. “No, don’t go. I… I need you."


	2. Cygnus Inter Anates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cygnus Inter Anates -- A swan among ducks
> 
> Lila Bard meets Talya, a few times.
> 
> Enjoy!

Delilah hummed happily as she strolled down the quayside, all but unseen outside the halo of gaslight. It was well past midnight, the crescent moon reflected softly on the river. Perfect time for light fingers, rogue mischief, and escaping swiftly into shadowed alleys, but Lila was no longer on the take that night. The small bag at her side was already loaded with enough trinkets and baubles, all the small pretty things her sleight of hand afforded her.

London was still undeniably within the grips of the spirits. A strange fever fueled by hauntings and phantoms, where those once derided as delusional or just despicable were suddenly the toast of high society. 

Mediums.

Base parlor magicians who worked in light and shadow and slight of hand the same way jewelers worked in silver and gems. The same way thieves worked their trade.

Lila had seen one perform in one of the crowded theaters littering the East Side, better known for garish tales of blood and gore than practitioners of the Great Beyond. It was an American who had bitten off more than he could chew, fumbling through words of “spells” and constantly looking into the wings for his next “spirit.” Her quick eyes picked up every trick, even the ones less obvious to the general crowd. She had been the one to start the jeering that drove the man off stage after twenty minutes.

They were frauds. Every last one of them. Lila was sure of it.

She was even more sure she could be one too, be better than the rest and get more for her trouble.

Delilah Bard was the best fraud in London, the best thief too. The hefty paychecks, calling cards, and lifted jewelry in her bag said as much. Four pairs of earrings, one necklace, and a supposedly cursed music box to be very precise. Most of the tricksters used simple machines and even simpler redirection -- clicking ankles, bumping knees, tables turned over with a hairpin trigger, and gunpowder on candle wicks. 

Effective, yes, but not very inventive in Lila’s estimation. Invention separated her from the pack, kept her fresh, her audience on their toes and swiftly growing in numbers.

Lila wouldn’t have survived this long without being as nimble as she was. Quicker than her own shadow, light on her feet, trickier than anyone else around her. It was her edge, her advantage. She felt it may have been her birthright. And, when even those skills failed her, there was always a trusty silver pistol in her coat pocket to fall back on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She arrived back at her rooms not quietly, but more or less unseen. The Stone’s Throw was crowded with East Enders vying for a buzz, a table, elbow room at the polished bar top. By this time of the night, the tavern was packed to the gills with all kinds throwing away their week’s pay and Lila could move through them unbothered. She liked the bustle and jostle, the feeling that she was in the middle of something without having to join. Only Barron, the establishment’s owner and barkeep, noticed her when she reached the stairs.

“Find enough trouble this evening, Lila?” He called over the dull roar of his patrons.

“I always tell you, Barron. The trouble finds me!” Lila laughs.

“Never enough trouble for you I’m afraid.”

“Never enough,” Lila grins, pausing on the creaking stairs to lean against the creaking wallboards. “I’ve got enough for board tonight. You want it?”

Barron shakes his head, filling a glass. “Not when I know where it's come from, I don’t.”

Lila scoff, crosses her arms. “You said  _ honest work _ , Barron. And this, for me, is honest work.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s not pickpocketing!”

“It’s as good as.” 

“It’s not my fault the West Enders are dumb enough to believe in ghosts,” Lila smirks. “What’s it to you if they pay me to speak great auntie Gertrude into existence so they can ask about their paltry inheritance?”

Barron shrugs, sending another glass careening down the bar. “I wouldn’t be so high on the horse just yet, Lila.”

“Why’s that?”

Barron pointed up towards the ceiling. “You’ve got a visitor. Posh sort too.”

“How’d they find me?” Lila’s fingers itched towards her coat pocket.

“Don’t know,” Barron says. “Young lady, hair done up, blue dress some fine thing. Stood out like a sore thumb but she asked for your room.”

Lila gaped at him, anger rising in her throat. “And you  _ told her _ ?”

“She said she needed a favor.” Barron never raised his voice with her. Ever. Nothing she could ever do could rile him past a stern stare or an arched brow. He had seen it all, and Lila’s ire barely registered. “She looked harmless, compared to you at least, and I pointed her up the stairs.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Lila snapped.

“It’s my bar. I’ll do whatever I please,” Barron corrected, and there it was. The stern glance. Lila huffed and sneered, turned on her heel and stomped up the rough stairs to her rooms. He called after her: “You can pay me with whatever she gives you for the favor. Clean money  _ only _ , Lila!”

“Clean money only Lila…” Lila mutters derisively to herself, rolling her eyes.

What did he care where she got her money from? He certainly didn’t care when it came to his other customers. Why did Barron insist on being so stubbornly stringent when it came to  _ her _ ? Any other person along the river would take her coin, no questions asked. Barron was, of course, the only one down on the water who pretended towards having morals.

It wasn’t as if Lila had anything to save for. America held no interest for her. Earning her own pirate ship would no doubt cost more than she could make in a lifetime or land her a lifetime in Holloway prison. And even if she could talk her way into a sailor’s contract, she’d want to be more than a measly cabin boy or powder monkey.

No, Lila was well acquainted with disappointment and impossibilities. Not content with their presence, but used to them. She wasn’t content with sitting idly by and daydreaming, waiting for the stars to align or whatever such nonsense people who could sit still did. No, she had to keep working. Keep money coming in, keep her skills up, keep her head above water. But she would never be content with this live. She would not be chided for doing what she could to carve out her fair share in a world that would keep it unfairly from her. And she would  _ especially not _ be chided by the likes of Barron, of all people.

She ran her fingers along the rough-hewn wall boards as she sauntered to her room. It was a good night. She had made good money and was about to make some more. She wasn’t about to let the tavern keeper ruin her fun. She smiled to herself, wrapping her hand around the door knob. She flung the door open and raised her eyes to greet her new patron.

Lila stopped cold in her tracks.

There was no one waiting for her.

“Hello?” Lila called into the room. There was no answer, so she pulled Castars -- her pistol-- from her coat pocket and held it at the ready as she walked inside. She shut the door quietly behind her, scanning the plain four walls. Lila stepped carefully, crouching to check underneath the bed then spinning to yank open the small closet.

No one.

Lila sighed heavily, irritation prickling at her neck. She had half a mind to march back downstairs and snarl at Barron for lying to her. Instead, she snarled into the folds of her hanging clothes, then readied herself for bed.. Visitor or no, Lila needed rest. She had an object reading -- what other mediums called  _ psychometry _ \-- the next morning.

As she pulled the nightshirt over her head, Lila heard a rustling noise. She spun, yet again found an empty room behind her, shrugged it off as she pulled back the blankets and extinguished the light. Must be the mice again, she thought.

Nothing to worry about.

Sleep came quickly, pulling Lila down into swaddling darkness. A comforting, consuming rest that Lila so rarely enjoyed. The kind that put the body back to rights, a clear sign of hard work. The kind that never, ever lasted as long as she would like. 

First, something brushed her cheek. Featherlight and steady. Lila rolled over, brushing it away.

Minutes later, the hand was back and tugging at her hair. Gentle to start, then more insistent until the fingers clenched at her roots and yanked her upright. Lila squirmed and struggled, blinking blearily into the darkness of her bedroom. Finally, the hand released her, leaving Lila panting and gasping in the dark. She blinked, feeling the blankets around her, then reached for the matches and candle at her bedside.

Then she felt the blankets move.

Small, scurrying movements around her ankles and legs, between the blankets, moving higher and higher.

Lila thrashed, throwing the blankets off her and leaping from the bed, matchbox in hand. In the darkness, she backed up into the far wall, nearly tripping over the dresser that stood opposite the bed. 

The sounds of the mice grew closer, louder, ran over her bare feet and around her ankles. 

Stifling a shriek, Lila sat on the dresser and pulled her feet up after her. Back pressed safely to the wall, she fumbled with the matchbox, striking a match against the side three times before it caught. She raised the small flame up to look over the floor and corners, finding no trace of the rodents beyond her own tossed bedclothes. 

She extinguished one match, then lit another. There had been hands in her hair, on her face. Hands that had brushed and twisted, then grabbed and pulled. Her heart beat, rabbit fast, against her ribs. There was someone in her room. Someone touching her. Someone trying to wake her up. Someone hiding somewhere in the dark.

The match in her fingers suddenly extinguished itself.

A cold wind brushed over her bare knees.

Then a face in front of hers. “ _ Hello, charlatan. _ ”

Now, Lila screamed. Screamed for real, like one of those made-up actresses in those bawdy murder plays she and Barron would occasionally see together. Screamed like she believed she was about to die.

But no sound came out.

Her mouth was open, her heart racing, her lungs over-exerting themselves.

But no sound.

The face in front of her -- a woman, she could see now -- smiled merrily and leaned away. “Yes, that’s a nice trick isn’t it? No one hears you unless I want them to. Now, now that I’ve finally got your attention--” Her face falls and she sighs, annoyed. “Are you quite finished with that yet?”

Lila’s mouth snapped closed and she glared hard at the woman. The longer she looked, the stranger the image became. The woman had no color to her, absolutely none. Petite, lithe, and so pale she was faintly blue, blending into the dark at her edges. She was dressed in a dancer’s costume, light fabric draped delicately over her shoulders and flowing to below her knees, the soft shoes laced with ribbons around her ankles. 

Lila blinked and then noticed one last detail. Her skirt was flowing, drifting, as if there were a breeze coming through the room.

Her window, the full moon glittering in the sky outside it, was sealed shut with paint.

The woman grinned, laughing lightly. “Oooh, look who’s observant now. Yes, little charlatan, your eyes are correct. I am dead, and I need a favor.”

Lila coughed and sputtered, relieved to be making noise again. “A f-favor? Y-you--.”

“Yes, I’m the one your friend downstairs talked to and told you about. You were very rude to ignore me earlier--.”

“ _Ignore you?_ ” Lila gasped, voice hoarse and tight. “ _I_ _ignored you_?”

The woman frowned. “Yes, you did. I don’t like being ignored.”

“I couldn’t  _ see you _ !” Lila whispered urgently. “How could I ignore you if I couldn’t see you?”

“You could have said something.”

“I said hello! You could have said something back!”

The ghost tilted her head. “But I did… Oh dear.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping, and she began pacing, tapping a finger into her lower lip. “Oh, I know what went wrong. I see, that’s why you made that noise to the closet…” She pauses and turns back to Lila. “I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t loud enough. Please forgive me.”

Lila nodded. “Sure, yes, forgiven. But please tell me.  _ What _ are you doing in my room?”

“I need a favor from you,” the ghost said. “I need your help, I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate.”

“You want my help? After calling me a charlatan?” Lila blinked. “I’m sorry, but you ought to go somewhere else. I can’t help you.” She closed her eyes and leaned back into the wall. “I must be dreaming… That’s what this is, a dream…”

A finger tapped her knee. The ghost had stepped closer again. “Sorry to burst this particular bubble, but no. You’re not dreaming. I saw to that.”

Lila scowled. “You did, didn’t you. The mice were unnecessary, by the way, I was already awake. You didn’t need to turn my bedroom into a bad penny dreadful.”

“I was angry, I don’t like being ignored!” The ghost protested. “But, please, I do need your help. You aren’t a charlatan, not really.”

“No, I very much am. I’m a fraud, totally, and I’m definitely dreaming.” Lila slid from the top of the dresser, holding the top even as her feet came to rest on the floor. “Now, I am going to bed and I am going to wake up and not one moment if this will be real. I’m a fraud, I’m a fraud, I am a fraud.”

The ghost stared at her. “And what if you aren’t?”

Lila stared back. “Then I should be locked up in Bethlehem.”

The ghost stepped forward, turning on her toes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Lila. Lila’s eyes stay on her as she stands on her toes and leans uncomfortably close. “But… Look at the bed, Lila.”

Lila sighed, exasperated, and indulged the dream. Her heart nearly stops in her chest when her eyes adjust and take in the scene in front of her. It was her, laying curled under the blankets, fast asleep. Her chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. Lila blinked, struggling for words, for an explanation. Any thread she could grasp to pull to comprehend what was in front of her. She stares at her hand, flexing and stretching her fingers in amazement.

“Am… Am I dead?” She whispers.

“No,” came the ghost’s voice, gentle but pleased. “You’re trancing, sleeping very deeply. I managed to pull you across so you could stand here and talk with me. As soon as you lay back down in that bed, you’ll be back safe in your skin, I promise you that.”

“T-Trancing? Like, like what the, the mediums talk about?”

“And what you claim to not be able to do,” the ghost hummed.

“S-So… tonight, last night, whenever it was, did… did I?”

“Summon the voice of a dead man so he could explain the intricacies of his will to his wife? Yes, you did. That’s how I found you. I followed you home, in a manner of speaking. The dead really  _ do _ travel fast, Lila.”

“H-How do you know my name?”

“I overheard. I overhear a lot of things. But, will you let me tell you why I’m here then?” The ghost asked. “In case, perhaps, I am right and you haven’t gone mad… Trust me. I’ve seen people who are stark raving mad, and you aren’t one of them, Lila _. _ ”

“Not yet I suppose,” Lila sighed and stared at the ceiling. She turns back towards the ghost and presses her lips together. “Fine, yes. Tell me your name, what you want, and what I’ll get in exchange. Then I’ll consider it. Is that good enough for you?”

The ghost spins away, thrilled. A ballerina, Lila guesses by the way she moves and balances. The skirt flares and bounces, her body staying a second or two too long in the air. “Thank you! My name is Talya. I want you to help me heal a long-lost friend of mine and I have a particular method, which I will walk you through step by step. But we will have to move quickly and his condition is fragile.”

“And if I help you?” Lila arched an eyebrow.

Talya smiled brightly. “I will ensure you learn  _ exactly _ what your powers are.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lila woke with the sun the next morning, but felt no reason to rise. She lay flat on her back, staring upwards at the ceiling in confusion. She felt at once wide awake and deeply exhausted. She had never had a dream so vivid, so detailed, so utterly confusing. How she didn’t jolt awake, sweating and trembling, when Talya appeared in front of her that first time she didn’t know.

It had been so real.

But it was only a dream.

No sense in letting it keep her from her day.

So Lila stood and dressed. She was careful about her dressing for appointments, running the fine line between what she preferred to wear and what her hosts would find appropriate enough to pay her the full amount she asked. She had learned early on that if one thing was out of place, the wealthy patrons who invited her in would simply withhold her check. 

A pair of men’s trousers, a woman’s blouse and boots, her long coat that could easily be mistaken for a dress. Her bag of tricks over one shoulder, a hat held in gloved hands.

She had been to the Scales’ home before -- three times before, actually. It was a respectable little townhome, squarely middle class but comfortable. They had lost a few too many relatives and children too quickly, and the matriarch of the family believed that their energies were forever trapped in their most loved objects. She brought Lila in time after time to determine which objects they were, exactly, by touching them. 

That was Lila’s most successful trick -- being able to hold an object, closely read what few family members she encountered, and suss out an answer to any question lobbed her way. From whether the youngest son was still attached to his teddy bear or where a mother-in-law preferred her crosstitch to be hung. There wasn’t even a trick behind it, just set dressing. The production she made of taking her gloves off then back on disguised her pocketing small items for later.

She had never stolen from the Scales family. They paid her handsomely enough, always sent her off with something to eat. Wealthier families hardly noticed if a figurine or two was missing, and would likely blame the ghosts on it before blaming Lila. There were no frauds when one truly believed, she supposed.

_ But what if you aren’t? _

The voice of Talya haunted her on her walk to the Scales. It echoed in her ears as she waited on the front steps, as she greeted the elderly couple, as she stepped into their parlor just as she had done three times before. It was only a dream, but Lila remembered every moment. Every word and gesture exchanged. The way Talya’s skirt had bounced, the way her foot slid back into a point out of habit.

She had seemed so real.

But a dream was a dream, and Lila had work to do.

A fire crackled merrily as Lila took her seat across from the couple and removed her gloves. She laid them very precisely on her lap, instructing the couple to not touch the items they had set out on the coffee table but to point and give her the name of their former owner. It all went very methodically, according to the pattern of every reading she gave like this. One by one, feeling each object, taking her time, then answering and repeating.

A small silver teapot.

A string of pearls.

A great-grandmother’s bible and bonnet.

A pendant containing a slim, braided clipping of a sister’s hair.

When Lila lifted a pair of delicate lace gloves -- belonging to one of their late children, Mrs. Scales supplied -- the fire sparked viciously, drawing all their eyes. After a minute of concerned staring, they all agreed it was a hole in a log and returned to the gloves. 

The fire sparked and crackled, a log tumbling off the pile. Lila smiled at her hosts and replaced the gloves, pulling on her own. “Let me.”

As she crouched before the hearth, Lila felt distinctly that she had made a mistake. She did not know why, but it settled cold in her stomach. She looked up in time to see a figure rising from the fire, pale and flaming. It sent Lila tumbling backwards onto the carpet, Mr. Scales scrambling to his feet, and Mrs. Scales letting up a hair-raising shriek.

“Lila!” The flaming figure wailed. “You must come quickly! He’s dying, Lila!”

A gasp escaped Lila’s lips as she made out the outline of a romantic ballet costume, the subtly pointed foot. Even the voice was the same. “Talya?”

“Yes! I know I agreed to let you have time to consider, but he’s slipping away!” Talya’s voice mixes with the flair and crackle of the fire she materialized in. By some miracle, the carpet remains unburned. “You must come now!”

“But I have clients, I--”

“ _ Now Lila!” _ Talya shouts. The flames raise up behind her, a sunburst sourced directly in the ghost’s energy. Her feeling. 

Lila scrambles to her feet, dusting her coat off. “Where, Talya? Where do I go?”

“The Sanctuary, ask for Kell Maresh,” Talya answered quickly. “I’ll meet you there. Please, hurry!”

As soon as she appeared, Talya’s ghost evaporated, leaving a very audible silence in her wake.


	3. Ab Aeterno

Kell didn’t like the stranger girl sitting so close to Holland. He didn’t like the way she sniffed disdainfully at the Sanctuary, his rooms, and everything in them. He certainly didn’t like the way her fingertips lingered on his silver knife when she inspected his desk and resented the way she insisted she was in charge of the situation. Truthfully, Kell didn’t like her at all.

But she said Talya had sent her.

And Kell, unquestioning, had shown her inside.

Because no one --  _ no one _ \-- knew about Talya except for Kell, who himself was not entirely meant to know about her. He had been introduced to her entirely by accident in a tea room, only a week before the accident that brought about her untimely death. Talya had been charming, dark-eyed and quick-witted; an unusually expressive ballerina who had been known to London audiences as the Basque Rose, despite her family being Welsh not Spanish. 

She had been dead for nearly eight years, and Kell knew there wasn’t a day gone by that Holland didn’t think about her. His personal journals, which he kept open on his side table, were full of letters to the woman. Regular correspondence replete with  _ hello, how are you, are you well where you are _ , as though she were merely in another country instead of another dimension. Long, rambling missives where he posed questions on philosophy, history, aspects of his technique that could be improved or had failed altogether. Birthday and St. Valentine’s greetings. Small, pasted-in postcards purchased for a penny or two each and addressed to her. 

Then there were the love letters. So many, many love letters. Short, long, miles long. Hopeful, sorrowful, pedestrian, romantic, sentiments that would impress even the greatest poets. Pages and pages of them, carefully dated, always beginning with  _ my dearest _ and ending with  _ yours always _ . There was one accounting for practically every week of the last eight years.

Because Talya was Holland’s first and last love. The only person on earth or in spirit to ever hold his heart, who held it still in death. Kell knew that, had known it when Holland introduced Kell to her. The way his eyes shone when he looked at her, how he held her hand between both of his own. The blue silk dress he had spent a month’s wages to buy her, his heartbroken voice when he asked Kell to box it up and banish it to the attic. Kell, then still only Holland’s apprentice, had done it. He had done everything the man asked, threw himself wholly into anything that promised to ease the pain of a heart torn down the middle.

Shredded, aching, unmendable.

Kell had done his best. He held a respectful distance, kept quiet as his own feelings for the man had swirled, grown, and deepend with every request.

And here this Lila appears on his doorstep, claiming to know how to revive the man he loved through the will of the woman Holland would always love more. Lila had answered all his questions, knew even the smallest details about the woman from the style of her hair to the name of her youngest sister. Lila even had Talya’s silver locket, the very same one that had gone missing from his desk shortly after things fell apart. She claimed it had fallen out of the air and onto her bed exactly two days earlier. Kell didn’t trust her as far as he could spit, but she represented his only hope.

Hastra and the other healers had given up.

Tieren had given up without so much as a second look.

The Sanctuary had already declared Holland a lost cause and was now waiting for the man to die in order to make it official. Make an announcement. They had already ordered funeral flowers.

And yet Kell held on, certain this could not be the end. Not yet, not like this. 

Holland deserved a good death, a fair death. He deserved a good end if he could not have the fresh start he had been working towards.  _ A fresh start, a good end. _ Holland said that a lot over the years, throughout their lessons and the life they now shared together. The man had it engraved on the inside of his pocket watch in the Old World language of his parents.

_ On vis och _ .

_ A fresh start, a good end. _

_ Dawn to dusk _ .

They were words Kell lived by now, sitting up by Holland’s bedside from the moment he woke until the moment he fell asleep in the very same chair. Day in, day out. Wide awake watching, waiting, hoping for something to happen. How many days and nights had he sat there, talking to a man who was deaf to the world and blind to Kell’s presence? How much energy had he expended in futile hope that that very moment Holland would stir, blink and yawn, shift then sit up with a smile and a familiar  _ hello darling _ . Like he had every morning for five years. The same smile, bed-warm skin, tangled black hair, and low voice rough with sleep. 

Two almost three weeks without now.

To Kell, it felt like an eternity.

Watching now from the corner of the quiet bedroom, Kell wondered if that was why he disliked Lila Bard so much. She had taken his chair, his one task for the day every day, had taken the space he had patiently worked to carve out for himself. She was promising the impossible, a complete novice who insisted she was a trick artist when everything about insisted she was far more. She had forced Kell away from the bedside early into the first day she was there. She poked and prodded the sleeping man, saying Talya was guiding her hand, inciting an ire Kell forgot he was capable of. He had kept it stuffed down since, taking the spot she told him to every morning and biting deep into his lip to keep from snapping.

Kell knew from all his years of study that the afterlife was fluid. It was unpredictable, malleable, prone to false starts, dead ends, and misplacements. Whatever door he walked through, he would inevitably exit through another, and never find either again. The same spirit never grasped his hand twice, the same voice never sounded in his ear more than once. But, for all his gifts and talents, all the tools at his fingertips, why  _ her _ ?

Why did Talya choose  _ Lila _ ?

Kell had known her, however briefly, would have known what to do if she had called upon him. He was the closest person to Holland in this life, knew the ins and outs of the man’s practice, knew that Talya was his spirit guide, and danced for the audiences at his performances. Kell was a medium too, an  _ antari _ medium no less.

Why didn’t Talya find him?

Or -- even more concerning -- what kept her from seeking him out?

“Hey! Ginger!” Lila called.

Kell didn’t look up until a paperweight thumped at his feet. He hated her nicknames too. “Yes,  _ Delilah _ ?”

“Talya wants me to ask what you know about Lucy… Lucy Ainsworth. From America…” she trailed off and made a face. “The te-- sorry, _her_ _technique_ in dream healing might be the answer.”

“Might be? Or is?” Kell answered, bored. Lila only squinted at him, incredulous at being questioned. He sighs and sits up, doing his best to not roll his eyes. “Yes, I am aware of her and her, erm… practice. The sleeping doctor from Vermont, correct?”

Lila nodded.

“The Sanctuary has been experimenting with the technique, but has had limited success,” Kell rattles off, matter of fact but still bored. “Ainsworth doesn’t share -- or, rather, won’t share with  _ us _ , her specific method but we’ve been able to work out the basic trance mechanism. The treatments, they don’t always last. Well, none of them have really lasted…”

Lila nods, then listens to the air again. Listening to a voice can’t hear for himself. “Alright, but have you heard of the Wat--.”

“Talya, may I speak to you myself?” Kell interrupts. “Please? This go-between is becoming tedious and I would very much like to talk to you myself, as you did with Holland. I am perfectly capable and want to hear your knowledge from  _ you _ , Talya. In your voice. Would you allow that for me, please?”

It sounded like whining, the pleading of someone not getting what they wanted. He didn’t want to come off spoiled or ungrateful. He didn’t want Talya to feel slighted and abandon this cause, or worse. But Kell needed this one thing, needed to feel close to the solution, close to the man in the bed. Minutes ticked by and Kell felt his heart sink into his stomach, that horrible stinging sour feeling spreading out through his limbs and chest. 

He lets out a breath, defeated. “Nevermind, forgive my--.”

“She says yes.” Lila blurts out. Annoyance invades her features as they make eye contact across the room, the stare-down only breaking when Lila finally rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Close your eyes, magic boy.”

“I know how trances  _ work _ \--.”

“Then shut your mouth and  _ do it _ .”

Kell leans forward, mouth set in a thin line. “Then get out of my chair.”

Lila’s lip curls up in a sneer, her eyes narrow dangerously. When Kell doesn’t back down, she stands and moves to lean against a spot on the wall near the door. Kell takes a breath, adjusts the pillow, and sits back down, feeling relief flood him. He settles against the back of the chair, tilting his face to the ceiling. He shuts his eyes, feeling a chill at his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Kell murmurs.

“I suppose you’re welcome,” came Lila’s sharp reply.

“Not you. Talya,” Kell corrected. “Always thank the spirits, Delilah. First lesson.”

“First lesson? What are you--?”

Kell let himself fall into trance before she could finish her sentence. He inhaled deeply and let the cool hands of the void pull him under. His skin cooled as he counted to twenty, adjusting to the feeling of his spirit being detached from his body. On the count of twenty-five -- when he was  _ sure _ he was secure -- Kell opened his eyes. 

On the surface, nothing had changed. He was still in Holland’s room, still in the chair, could still hear Lila tapping her foot impatiently. But it wasn’t exactly the same. The room was now cast in greys instead of the bright afternoon sunlight from before. When he straightened up, the shape of his body stayed in place underneath him. He turned his head, coming to face a young woman perched on the edge of Holland’s bed. She was a ghostly pale blue, but Kell could make out every detail. From the curve of her heart-shaped face and the curl of her hair, to the way her dress laid over her crossed legs. The same blue dress Holland had worked so hard to buy her.

“Hello, Talya,” Kell said, smiling widely. He didn’t know why. Perhaps seeing her made him feel more hopeful than he had in weeks.

She smiled back. “Hello, Kell. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it has. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.” He swallowed, leaning onto the chair’s arm. “You’ll forgive my rudeness to your speaker. I only want to help him as quickly as possible.”

“I’m not offended in the slightest, though I would be worried about dealing with her later. She does have a bit of a temper. Stubborn.” Talya’s eyes wandered up to where Lila stood against the wall, pouting. “Not so unlike someone we both love.”

If it were possible, Kell’s cheeks would have flushed red hot. He’s sure Talya can see, perhaps feel, his embarrassment. “Perhaps… What were you going to ask me, before I interrupted Delilah?”

Talya nodded to herself, straightening her shoulders and fixing him with a serious gaze. “Yes, that. Kell, are you familiar with the Watseka Wonder?”

“Not remotely.”

“I’m not surprised. It took place in a very small town in the United States. Not many of the spiritualists there are even aware of it,” Talya answered. “News like that doesn’t travel far. Essentially, the spirit of one family’s deceased daughter inhabited the body of the neighbors’ very ill daughter in order to heal her.”

Kell’s brows furrowed. “What does that have to do with Ainsworth?”

“Nothing. What you and I are doing now is what Lucy Ainsworth does -- trancing to consult a spirit on healing, then follows through exactly while claiming her spirit consultants were merely dreams.” Talya glanced over at Holland. She lifted a thin-boned hand, placing it over top of his. “I am telling you the only possible way to heal him is the Watseka method, Kell.”

“Are you…” Kell paused to let his racing thoughts catch up with him. “Talya, are you asking for my permission to _possess_ _Holland?_ ”

Talya let out a slow breath, chewing her lip. “Yes, Kell, I am. I can keep his body alive while his soul heals. This will be experimental at best and I will not give you false hope, but I would like to try. At the very least.”

“Understood, Talya, but why are you  _ asking _ me?” Kell repeated, no less astonished.

“Because you’re his keeper now, Kell,” Talya replied simply. “You’re the one he lives for now.”

“No, I’m not. He still loves you.” The words fly from his mouth before he can think.

Talya scoffs, rolling her eyes. “The lies the living tell themselves, I swear…” She brushes imaginary dust from her skirts and stands, holding out her hand to him. “Are you going to help me, Kell Maresh, or do I have to do everything myself around here?”

“Of course.” Kell took her hand and stood. “How can I help?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Holland lay staring into the crushing dark, unsure of how long he had been there. He had tried counting the seconds, walking the minutes backwards to no avail. Time meant nothing in the Veil. It blurred and bent horribly, leaving Holland lost.

He’s dimly aware he should be in pain. Writhing in agony, clutching his side and screaming, but he felt nothing. His body was numb. He wondered if it still held a shape. He wondered if he was still whole or if he had dissolved into the void the moment Osaron tore him apart. From then on it had been numbness, darkness, and cold. 

Kell had tried. Holland remembered him hovering, desperately trying to keep him awake. Those wide blue eyes, frantic and desperate. The way his voice had cracked, the trace of vomit at the corner of his mouth. Kell had tried to keep him alive. Kell had plunged into the deepest part of Veil and banished an  _ oshoc _ for him.

Holland blinked slowly, smiling faintly in the dark. The young man had tried so very hard, and Holland was sure he did not deserve even half of the effort. He didn’t deserve half of that love.

_ It's no use being sorry over it _ , Holland chided himself.  _ It’s all over now.  _

_ Never lost your keen sense of dramatics, have you Holland? _

Holland closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line. If he was hearing Talya’s voice, clear as daylight, he was most certainly dead.

_ You’re not dead, dear. Not yet, anyhow. I’m here to help you heal, as much as I can. _

_ The very little that’s left of me, I suppose. _

_ Actually, there’s quite a lot of you left. Do you trust me? _

Holland sighed heavily and opened his eyes again. Still the same crushing dark around him.  _ Of course I trust you, Talya.  _

_ Perfect. I wish I could be next to you to explain all of this, Holland, but you’re too fragile so I’m going to explain it from here. I’m going to take over your body for you.  _

_ Excuse me? _

_ You heard me. I am going to take over control of your body. Right now, you’re lying in bed, wasting away. That’s why you’ve been stuck wherever you are -- your body isn’t strong enough for your soul to hold on to, so your soul won’t heal. I am taking it off your hands for a while, dear. I’ll get your body all fixed up and well again -- walking, talking, all of it -- while you heal. _

Holland let out a sigh of relief.  _ Thank you, Talya. _

_ Oh hush. You can thank me when it works, Holland.  _

_ I’ll thank you now anyway. _ Holland stared out into the dark, imagining her face somewhere beyond it.  _ Is there anything I need to do? _

_ I’m not sure yet… I suppose concentrating on reaching out to me and trying your senses again. If we come up with something more concrete, I’ll tell you. _

_ Wait -- we? _

_ Kell and I. _

_ Kell’s there?  _ Holland’s heart leapt in his still chest. He hadn’t been left alone. 

Talya’s laugh, silvery and clear, rings through the Veil.  _ Yes he is. He’s the reason I’m able to do this at all. He’s very sweet and earnest, Holland. I see why you’ve come to like him so much. _

Holland could have laughed.  _ I am not talking about that with you, Talya. _

_ I wouldn’t expect you to, but I’ll tell you anyway. He looks much more grown-up now. _

_ It’s been eight years, Tal.  _

_ Has it really?  _ Talya hummed to herself.  _ Don’t look at me like that, keeping track of time is very hard on the other side. You’re lucky I remember your birthday at all. _

_ I’m lucky you found me in the first place.  _ Holland sighed.  _ Talya, would you tell him something for me? _

_ Absolutely. What? _

_ Tell him… Tell him thank you for retrieving me. And that I intend to see him again. _

_ Shall I throw in an “I love you” for good measure? _

_ Absolutely not. _

_ Oh boo. You’re no fun anymore, Holland. _ Talya let out a breath.  _ Alright, Holland. For this to work, I need your permission. May I inhabit your body for my own ends? _

Holland would have laughed if he could. He didn’t know if he could.  _ Yes, Talya. You may. Be kind with it, it’s not what you remember. _

_ No, it isn’t. You’ve gotten old, Holland. I’m very disappointed.  _ Talya teased.  _ Thank you, dear. Rest easy. I’ll come find you again soon. _


End file.
